Steffen Wöll

In a dusty corner inside my room / Behind some silken cover / I found a coat of arms / For me to wear / In a city of the ancient rites / Imperial alcoves and ornate groves / I came here and it's hard to bear / For some of us it's tough to swallow
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How much fun is it to almost miss your connection in Munich? I would say it all depends on you liking your name blaring loudly on airport speakers, pronounced with that particularly German semi-military ‘gusto.’
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I flew again from your arms, from the home we have made for ourselves. On a train with green curtains and orange windows I am moving forward with this idea: Each morning I will be a stranger, wherever I am. My life will stay strange, evidence of incoherent movements, a trail coiling inwards but never reaching a center. Overlapping and colliding, future rewrites of a sense of home, a frivolous fulfillment that hates itself for standing still.
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How to leave your noise, your smog, your triple parked heaps of junk? How to break up with the city in which we climbed the highest tower, boarded wooden ships, dreaming up some fatal fever? The ruins under the streets are still there, you know, still ignored, lit up conspicuously by construction lights, sending hard shadows to the walls and into me. I try to swallow them and spit them out onto the busy city streets.
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In a bus from Kavala, I see the undisturbed mirror of the Aegean sea to my left, rough rock faces rising to the right. Gazing into this broken shore, what is there to find but ever more questions, mountains to climb, bones to break, a new self to carve into a boulder, sticks to find or shells to crunch. This land is too old, it does not forget. It turns its sand to stone and lets it slide away. And lets it wash away into the sea to mix with salt, and weeds, and sunken treasures. What’s there is abstracted, connected to us in dreamscapes only. Accessible merely through fragments channelled through the fragments of self. The landscape is expecting,...
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